


none of these shall bring disaster (now feel this: remix)

by Teaotter



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, community: remix11, spoilers through 1.13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. It takes an effort not to raise his voice. “I can tend my own wounds, Captain. This isn't the first time I've been punched --”</p>
<p>“Why am I not surprised?”</p>
<p>“-- although I generally hire a professional.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	none of these shall bring disaster (now feel this: remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [When You Can't See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359280) by [Taz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz). 



By the time Sherlock makes it home from the bar, the brownstone is dark, except for the lights they normally leave in the kitchen. Joan has already found her way to bed. She was, no doubt, comforted by his text: _**apolgizd 2 CG; free 2 resum wrk** _. With luck, he will never have to explain the Captain's personal addendum.__

__Sherlock leaves his coat in the foyer entirely from habit and follows the shafts of light to the kitchen. Clyde is marching slowly across the floor, shadow stretched out behind him. Sherlock takes a few kale leaves from the refrigerator and drops them into the tortoise's food bowl. One of them should eat._ _

__Perhaps both of them. With the pain in his gut, Sherlock can't tell if he's hungry or not, but it has been several hours since his last meal. He leans gingerly against the counter and contemplates the contents of their cupboard._ _

__They have four tins of ready-made soup: one of tomato, two of chicken noodle, and one of split pea. The chicken noodle belong to Joan; she will almost certainly fail to take them with her when she leaves._ _

__His stomach roils at the thought, mixing with the heat of the bruise spreading under his ribs to make his gorge rise. He couldn't possibly bear the smell of it._ _

__“Split pea it is, then,” he tells Clyde, as briskly as he can. It still takes him a moment to reach for the tin._ _

__It's pathetic that he's keeping up appearances for a tortoise. At least Clyde will allow him to brood while the soup heats. Brooding is all Sherlock feels up for, at the moment._ _

__Sherlock's phone beeps for the third time since he left the bar. Another text. He ignores it._ _

__It wasn't supposed to happen this way._ _

__And that is hilariously ironic, that Sherlock, who has seen so often the mind-dampening power of revenge, was himself so blinded by the desire for vengeance as to fail to plan for contingencies. He intended to murder M, turn himself in to the police, and go to prison. It would have been so simple._ _

__Looking back, he can hardly imagine a worse fool._ _

__Still, after the indignities of addiction, Sherlock is certain he can survive the humiliation of the next few weeks. Now that he has forced his way back to the NYPD's good graces, Joan will see him as stable enough to assuage her guilt at leaving. He can set her free, at least._ _

__His phone beeps again as he takes the soup pot from the stove. Sherlock glances at it –- habit –- and turns away. The bowls are in an upper cupboard, and it takes a moment for him to brace himself for the pain that reaching out entails. And then another moment to catch his breath as it passes. He'll have to move slowly to get the soup safely to the table._ _

__Bruised ribs: not life threatening. Treatment: ice, paracetamol, rest._ _

__The knock at the door is unexpected, and unwanted. Sherlock has no interest in further human interaction tonight. He attempts to ignore it as he has his phone. The house is dark; it would be easy to conclude that everyone in it is asleep._ _

__But the second knock is louder, and risks waking Joan in her room, which could only lead to further disaster in Sherlock's current frame of mind. So he makes his way slowly to the door._ _

__The shape of the silhouette is the other person Sherlock least wants to see again tonight. Apparently, further disasters await regardless._ _

__There is the start of a third set of knocking, halted when his own silhouette is made clear through the frosted glass._ _

__“Open the door, Sherlock.” Gregson sounds as tired as Sherlock feels._ _

__Sherlock's hand lifts automatically to the lock, but he can't make himself open it. He should continue his earlier strategy of antagonism, but he doesn't think he can. “I'm afraid I'm very tired, Captain --”_ _

__“Open the door,” Gregson says again, and when the silence stretches longer: “I'm not spending all night on this stoop. Let me in, or I'll call Joan like I should have done in the first place.”_ _

__Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes as evenly as he can against the pain in his ribs. Then he straightens his shoulders and pulls open the door. He can do this._ _

__The lights from the street throw Gregson's face into shadow, but Sherlock knows his own is visible. He sets his expression to sneer. “If you're here to apologize, I assure you --”_ _

__“Oh, I assure you I'm not here to apologize.” Gregson brushes past Sherlock and drags him toward the kitchen. Sherlock has to fight not to flinch from the hand on his arm. “I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”_ _

__“I'm fine,” Sherlock asserts when they stop in front of the table, yanking his arm away from Gregson's hand. His pathetic bowl of soup sits forlorn and alone. “Just a little sore.”_ _

__“Like I'm going to believe you.” Gregson laughs briefly, the twist of his lips more like a snarl as he pushes Sherlock's shirt up with his gloved hand. He maps out the edges of the bruising and presses gently, his eyes darting up to Sherlock's face to check his reaction._ _

__Other than blazing humiliation, Sherlock isn't at all sure what Gregson reads there, but apparently it satisfies him, because he lets Sherlock's shirt tail drop. “You should have ice on that.”_ _

__Sherlock rolls his eyes at the lecturing tone. “I'm well aware.”_ _

__There is a moment of awkward silence, one Sherlock refuses to fill. He has the distinct feeling that this conversation will no more go his way than their last._ _

__Eventually, Gregson sighs, clearly exasperated. “You should at least let Joan look at it.”_ _

__Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. It takes an effort not to raise his voice. “I can tend my own wounds, Captain. This isn't the first time I've been punched --”_ _

__“Why am I not surprised?”_ _

__“-- although I generally hire a professional.”_ _

__Sherlock smirks as he says it, holding Gregson's gaze too directly to be comfortable for either of them. Gregson just looks back, the tiredness around his eyes slipping to something more amused. “You're doing it again.”_ _

__“Speaking?”_ _

__“Trying to piss me off.” Gregson is watching Sherlock's face closely. “You're good at it, too.”_ _

__Sherlock lets his eyes narrow in his very true annoyance. “I assure you, Captain, that my apology earlier was quite sincere –- ”_ _

__“Bullshit.”_ _

__Gregson's tone is soft, but the tension in his shoulders is rising, and Sherlock chooses to misconstrue his meaning. “If you intend to strike me again, I only ask that you avoid the bruising. I don't want to break a rib.”_ _

__“Dammit!” Gregson takes a step back and buries his face in his hands, as if he can't stand the sight of Sherlock. “What I can't figure out is why you're trying to antagonize me.”_ _

__“While I cannot comprehend why you would subject yourself to working with a man you despise.” The words tumble out before Sherlock can stop them. Once Gregson drops his hands to look Sherlock in the eye, Sherlock can't find the energy to regret them. “You could easily pass me off to another detective in your division.”_ _

__The silence stretches out between them as Gregson stares at him, clearly nonplussed. A truck rumbles by in the street outside. Sherlock considers whether he has finally stunned the man into catatonia._ _

__When he does speak, his voice is low and clipped. “A piece of advice, Sherlock: chasing people off because you're ashamed that you used them is no better than using them in the first place.”_ _

__It's Sherlock's turn to look away, a chill passing down his spine. “And apparently less successful.”_ _

__Gregson huffs out a sigh. “Ultimately, that's up to you.”_ _

__It wasn't supposed to happen this way. There weren't supposed to be _feelings_. The people he respected would simply abandon him as he had abandoned their morals, and he would be satisfied with his revenge. They were supposed to detest him, and he wasn't supposed to care. _ _

__The fact that he had deluded himself into believing that would ever happen... is embarrassingly obvious._ _

__“Goodnight, Captain.” Sherlock doesn't look up._ _

__“Goodnight, Holmes.” Gregson digs his hands into the pockets of his coat and turns away. “I'll let myself out.”_ _


End file.
